


Pins and Needles

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoos, Awkward Boners, Awkward Sexual Situations, Body Image, Bottom Anders (Dragon Age), Dragon Age Kink Meme, Explicit Sexual Content, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Laughter During Sex, M/M, Post-Coital Cuddling, Tattoos, Top Fenris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 12:12:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6153352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this prompt on the DAKM: "Anders gets his first tattoo, and discovers that getting tattooed is very arousing for him. Tattoo artist!Fenris discovers that working on a gorgeous blonde who's obviously getting off on it is very arousing for him. And it just so happens that Anders is his last appointment of the day, so after the tattoo is done, they get to know each other better... if you know what I mean."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pins and Needles

He bites his lip, and grins.  “It’s my first time,” he tells the elf, “Be gentle.”  

 

It’s a joke, obviously; he can’t help it, he always jokes when he’s nervous, and this guy is definitely not helping.  He’s _gorgeous_ , white tattoos standing out in stark contrast to the deep, velvety brown of his skin, matching the white of his hair, emphasising the emerald of his eyes.  His tattoos are everywhere; white lines along his fingers, travelling up his arms underneath the sleeves of his plain black t-shirt, along his throat and chin… Maker, _that_ must hurt.  Anders swallows, unable to keep from considering where else the tattoos might be - do they trail down his throat and onto his chest, circle nipples and curl over ribs?  Plunge over hips, whisper over thighs?  Anders shakes his head and returns his gaze to the tattooists face.  

 

The elf smirks at him, tugs at the tunnel in his left ear and looks contemplatively at the reference photo Anders had bought with him.  “A… cat?” he asks dubiously.

“Not just any cat,” Anders grins.  “That’s Mr Wiggums.  He was the bravest guy I ever knew.”

The tattooist shrugs.  They are standing in the lobby of the Hanged Man, the little tattoo parlour that Carver had said was good, that was where he’d gotten his last one done, and the people were nice.  “You don’t want a cheap one,” Carver had warned him, “Cheap tattoos aren’t good, and good tattoos aren’t cheap.  Go to this place.  Ask for Fenris.  He kicks ass, man.”

 

So that was what he’d done.  Truth is he feels a little daft about it, a little virginal here in this brightly lit room, flash art on the walls, massive ledger on the counter.  The place stinks of antiseptic, which he takes as a good sign, and the buzzing from behind the counter is insistant.  Still, he’s got this far, so he waits while Fenris gives the photograph another look over and then nods.  “How big were you thinking?  Where do you want it?  Do you want any other elements?”

“Uh… here?” Anders gestures at the top part of his chest, placing his right hand on his pectoral muscle.  When Fenris nods again, Anders, emboldened, continues, “I… don’t mind about size.  And… what do you mean, elements?”

 

“Elements are just other parts of the design.  Like, flowers, or a dynamic ribbon with the animals name on it.  They’re quite common in memorial tattoos.”

“Oh.  Uh.  How did you know it was…”

Fenris looks at him steadily, then smiles slightly - sad, Anders thinks.  “You said he _was_ the bravest guy you ever knew.  Was I wrong?”

Anders shakes his head.  “No.  No, you weren’t.  Uh…”  That sweet, sad smile plays about Fenris’ lips again, and damn it if it doesn’t drive every other thought right out of Anders’ head.  He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth to speak, to say he doesn’t know what he wants, that he’s quite happy to leave the details to Fenris, when Fenris says, “Look.  I have an open appointment next week on Friday.  It’s late, but…” he shrugs, then continues, “I can draw something up, and you can come by then.  If you like what you see, then we can do it right then and there, as long as you’ve had something to eat, and you don’t take any aspirin-based painkillers beforehand.  Does that sound acceptable?”

 

Anders nods and smiles.  “Yes,” he tells Fenris, wondering if it’s a gross breach of etiquette to flirt with a person who will be putting permanent marks onto your body.   _Probably_ , he decides at the last minute, and brushes aside the thoughts that that _yes_ had given rise to; what else Fenris might ask him, what else he might say yes to.

 

-|||-

 

It’s love at first sight.  Fenris betrays no emotion at all when Anders breathes, “Wow.  Shit.  Wow.  This is…”  He tries to be more specific, but cannot find the words to express his admiration, so must settle for a blown out breath and returning his gaze to the illustration.  It’s only an outline, but if this is what the outline is… it’s quite stylised, this picture, but it’s perfect, at least to Anders.  Mr Wiggums is _right there_ , recreated in pencil and ink, right down to the somewhat ironic expression on his face.  His front paw is raised, and he stands in the middle of a lovely flower, surrounded by fragile looking petals.  When Anders looks up again, Fenris asks, “The flower is a peony.  It’s a symbol of courage.”

“It’s… wow.  Yeah.  This is… yeah.”

Fenris chuckles a little under his breath and takes a seat next to where Anders perches on the edge of what he can only think of as a dentist’s chair.  He rolls the stool over, coming so close to Anders that Anders can smell his aftershave or, _Maker, maybe that’s just the way he smells_ he thinks and resists the urge to bury his nose in that white hair and inhale.   _Pervert_ , he smiles to himself and clears his throat.  Fenris, either oblivious or pretending not to notice, points at a curling petal and asks, “Depending on what you want, I could colour the flower and leave the cat…”

“Mr Wiggums…”

“...alright,” Fenris takes a deep breath, then says the cats name as if it is physically painful to utter something so ridiculous, which makes Anders smirk, “Mr Wiggums, make him black and white?  Or the other way around, but I do not think that will be as effective.”

 

Anders considers for a moment, and shrugs.  “Honestly, you’re the expert.  I put myself, and my body, entirely at your disposal.”

Fenris snorts at that, and looks at Anders consideringly.  “You should be careful, saying that to a tattoo artist.  If you’d said that to one of the other artists here, you’d end up with lots and _lots_ of dragon tattoos.”

Anders grins, and before he is able to stop himself, he leans forward slightly and purrs, “Really?  And what would _you_ do with this blank canvas?”

Fenris doesn’t miss a beat; he smiles, vulpine, all teeth and eyes even in this awful fluorescent lighting.  “Anything I wanted,” he growls, and shrugs slightly, “I’m the expert, after all.”

 

Anders is stunned to silence.  That doesn’t happen often, but he notes the slight look of discomfort, rather than triumph on Fenris’ face, and he makes a mental note not to push his luck too hard.  He smiles openly, and asks, “So before we get too far down this road, how much is this going to cost me?”

Fenris purses his lips and looks at the paper with the design on it.  “I can give you an estimate; time and materials, about four hundred.”

 

Anders is relieved; he’d expected the damage to be much worse.  Carver had warned him that the shop does not accept any other payment than cash, so he had bought five hundred with him, and reasoned if it was more than that, then he couldn’t afford it anyway.  “Done,” he tells Fenris, who sits up a little straighter.  A dwarf wanders past, carrying a sketchbook, his arms covered in lines and lines of tattooed script, and claps Fenris on the shoulder.  “‘Night, Broody,” he says as he’s walking past, then sees the piece of paper and peers around Fenris’ elbow at it.  “Cool.  Better than mabari any day,” he grins at Anders who smiles weakly back.  

 

The dwarf walks away, grinning and whistling.  Fenris takes a deep breath and exhales into the sudden quiet, only the dwarf’s receding footfalls echoing off the linoleum and the black painted brick of the walls.  The door to the shop slams.  Anders becomes aware, very aware, of the fact that the shop is now empty, and they are sitting very close together - he can in fact feel the warmth radiating from Fenris’ body.  He licks his lips.  The silence goes on for a moment longer, then Fenris rises.  “I’ll put this on a transfer, and you take your shirt off.  Then we can see where it looks best. Oh, and we will have to run a razor over you too.”

 

This is the moment that Anders has been dreading.  Of course, he knew he’d have to remove his shirt at some stage, but… _Get it over with_ , he tells himself, already bracing himself for the questioning looks, the narrowing of eyes and the slightly open mouth, full of unasked questions.  He stands and pauses, fingers fiddling at the hem, as Fenris waits at a dilapidated photocopier, watching it, the machine whirring and clanking loudly in the quiet of the studio, then in one motion, he takes off his thin green t-shirt.  Then he sits back down, twirling the t-shirt into a ball, moving it around and around in his hands.  Fenris fusses with the copies, cutting around the shape of the tattoo, then looking at them as he turns back around.  Finally, he looks up at Anders.  Anders holds his breath, waiting for the gaze to travel down to the lividity of the purple, badly healed scar on his chest, the thin white stripes over his forearms.  He’s waiting, waiting for the sympathetic eyes or the poorly phrased questions to come; but they never do.  “You will need to stand up,” Fenris tells him, and then points to a position in front of a long, wall-mounted mirror.

 

“Alright,” Anders says, and rises again.  He feels self-conscious as he moves toward Fenris, still waiting as he is for Fenris to notice his scars, to mention them.  Fenris walks over to him, still looking at the copy, and places it onto the stool on which he'll sit. He then picks a disposable razor from the stand next to the stool. Anders catches his own reflection by accident in the mirror, looks away quickly, back down to Fenris.  He is standing in front of Anders now, pulling off the cover of the razor. Then he touches Anders' chest, looking up suddenly, and tells him, "It might be cold." Anders can hardly breathe. Slowly, Fenris shaves a broad swathe of the skin on Anders' chest until it's bare; he then tosses the razor into a nearby sharps bin and bends to pick up the transfer, then stands only an arm's length away as the tattooist picks at the backing paper.  Fenris scrunches his mouth in concentration, then finally peels the adhesive off the back of the transfer in one motion, cramming it into his back pocket.  He holds the transfer out towards Anders’ chest then quietly asks, “Alright if I put it on now?”

 

Anders smiles, nods slightly, and says, “Yes.  Fine.”

Fenris pauses, moving slightly to one side so that Anders can see the position in the mirror.  He watches as Fenris concentrates again, leaning a little closer to his chest, and Maker, there is that smell again, sweet and sharp, bright like cut grass or new apples.  Anders struggles to keep his breathing level, Fenris’ hands warm on his chest as he holds the transfer a hairs breadth away from the surface of Anders’ skin and asks, “Here? Or down a bit?”

 

“Huh?  Oh.  Uh…”  Anders pretends to consider it, then nods.  “There’s good.”

“Alright,” Fenris tells him, and places the adhesive.  When he peels the papery cover back, the design is left on Anders’ skin.  He looks down at it, pleased and proud and slightly strange feeling, wondering what will come next.  He’s never been a baby for pain, Maker knows he’s had enough experience of it, but he’s heard that tattoos are different.  He pushes the thought aside and makes himself look in the mirror, where he sees Fenris’ green eyes staring at him.  Fenris blinks twice, then asks, “What do you think?”

 

Anders only nods.  When Fenris continues to stare at him, he forces himself to say, “Yes.  Yeah, it’s fine.  Better than fine.  It looks…”   _good_ seems woefully inadequate, but it’s all he can muster, so he trails off.  The mere ghost of a smile touches Fenris’ lips and he says, “Good then.  Are you ready?”

Anders nods again, and says “Yes.  I’m ready.”

Fenris’ smile widens slightly, teeth white, sharp.  “Come on then.  This way.”

 

-|||-

 

His skin feels hot, pulled tight.  It’s not painful, per se, just… sensitive, thin feeling.  The needles scrape, the tattoo gun waggles back and forth as Fenris puts the first glimpses of colour into the peony.  He’s already finished the black and white shading of the cat, having sellotaped the reference picture to the armrest of Anders’ chair so that he can use it to get Mr Wiggums’ stripes just so.  Before he’d started on the flower, he’d asked Anders if he’d had a preference for colour, and when Anders shrugged, the tattooist had raised an eyebrow slightly and said, “Red it is, then.”

 

But other than that, they have not spoken, not much.  Fenris seems content to concentrate, and Anders certainly doesn’t want to put him off his game.  But… the sensation of the tattoo gun, not pain, not pleasure; the feel of Fenris’ body, so close, so warm as he leans over Anders’ chest, his lips, his teeth, all of him so close… Anders takes a deep breath in, holds it, trying to will back the curling, distant feeling of the desire.  He wants to fidget, to shift as the blood within him moves down, down, as his heart rate climbs, as he feels sweat begin to stand on the back of his neck.  Fenris shifts slightly, going for a better angle, and his chest is pressed up against Anders’ ribs, his elbow grazing along the sensitive, ticklish skin at the top of Anders’ hip.  It’s too hot all of a sudden, too much, and Anders gasps.  Fenris immediately stops what he’s doing, sits back and looks at Anders before stating, “I need a break.”

 

“Right,” Anders says, and glances quickly at his own crotch.  Maker, it’s evident, he’s hard.  His cock is limned clearly through his shabby jeans, and if _he_ can see it, well… He looks away from Fenris, over to one of the black painted walls, lifting his knees up without thinking, trying to conceal his arousal.  He can feel the weight of Fenris’ stare though, and he suspects that he does not need a break at all - he had hopefully misinterpreted Anders’ gasp as pain, felt the racing of his heart under his hands.   _Or maybe he’s just creeped out,_ Anders thinks, desperate and embarrassed that his body should betray him so badly, _Maker knows I would be.  I mean, he must have felt it through my jeans!  Fuck.  Fuck!  What should I do?_

 

“So… what is it that you do, Anders?  For work, I mean,” Fenris asks quietly, his voice delicious, casual and yet… is there something more there?  Anders looks at him, his bland expression, and says quickly, “I’m a nurse.  At Kirkwall General?  In the Kristoff ward.”  He pauses, expecting to have to explain, but Fenris nods.  “That’s a free clinic,” he says, “For…”

“Yeah.  Mostly underprivileged families, ”  Anders rubs the back of his neck.  The ward, operating as it does as a separate entity, is always on the brink of going bust, but they’ve struggled on thus far.  The city needs them. “It’s pretty inspiring work, but it grinds a lot of people down.”

“Not you though?” The way it’s said is part question, part compliment, and Anders smiles slightly.  “Not yet,” he tells Fenris, then asks, “How did you get into this line of work?”

 

“Bad luck,” Fenris tells him wryly, but doesn’t go on to elaborate.  He takes a deep breath and looks at his hand, still inside the black surgical glove, curling it slowly into a fist.  His fingers are long, elegant, and Anders has to try very hard to shift the mental image that suddenly arises - those hands, their white markings, the beautiful fingers wrapped around his cock, in his mouth, in his hair.   _Fuck_ , he thinks again, and swallows.  Then he smiles and asks, “Hey, why’re your gloves black?  We only ever have blue ones.”

 

Fenris shrugs and moves closer.  “Alright to start again?” he asks and Anders nods, slightly disappointed that his question won’t be answered.  He likes listening to Fenris - certainly, his voice is incredible, rich and redolent with tenor, but… he seems kind of nice too.  Not aloof, which is what he’d expected when he first encountered the elf but kind of… sweet.   _Ah well_ , Anders thinks as the tattoo gun begins its buzzing again, _The sweet shy ones are always taken anyway._

 

They remain silent for a few moments longer.  “I think it’s because of the blood,” Fenris says suddenly, and Anders looks at him, puzzled.  Fenris glances up and smiles slightly, then clarifies, “The black gloves.”

“Oh! Yeah, well that would make sense.  I thought it was just because you guys thought you were a lot cooler than us.  Too cool for blue gloves.”

 

Fenris snickers, and glances up again, his lips curled into a smile.  Anders smiles back, and the wanting, the deep, awful/wonderful ache of it comes back with it.  He clenches his fists, closing his eyes as he drives his nails desperately into his palms, trying to give himself something else to focus on.  And it works for a while, as Anders sends his mind down the least erotic channels he can think of - cleaning up cat vomit, a shift at ED at four AM on a Sunday morning.  Nothing works for long though; all he feels is the not-really-pain of the needles as they scour his skin, injecting their burden of ink, piercing him over and over again, and fuck if that doesn’t seem sexual all of a sudden, and he bites his lip, trying hard, so hard not to think about how having someone, anyone, take him right now would feel, how if Fenris wanted, if Fenris asked, he’d do anything, anything at all.

 

He stifles a groan and shifts, conscious all over again at how close Fenris is sitting, how the warmth of their bodies is intermingled now, how, Maker, if he concentrates he can feel the little gusts of Fenris’ breath on his skin.  Every moment seems laden, tense, and he wants, he _wants,_   he wants with all of himself.  His cock is straining now, completely hard, he can, oh no, he can feel it beginning to leak even, what is he going to do?  Fenris sits up, wipes at his chest, and Anders shudders.  Fenris does not lean back down as Anders expects him to, and slowly, Anders opens his eyes.  This is awful, what will he say, his breathing is ragged and the smell of antiseptic in the air, the sudden silence as Fenris reaches over and switches off the machine, the deep, penetrating, clear look in his eyes as he sits and watches Anders.

 

Anders opens his mouth to apologise, wants to cover himself with his hands, anything to stop this beautiful, bright stare.  Then, Fenris strips off the gloves and rises, standing for a moment, his gaze never wavering from Anders’ face.  And although Anders feels that gaze, his own is compelled away by the closeness of Fenris’ body, his gaze rakes downward and he sees with some degree of shock that behind the fly of Fenris’ tight black jeans, his own cock now bulges, beautiful, obscene.  Reflexively, Anders opens his mouth a little; he wants to lean forward, to put his hand out and grab a fistful of the fabric at the waist of Fenris’ jeans, to pull him closer and lick and nuzzle and suck at this gorgeous man’s cock through these tight pants, make him want Anders as badly as Anders wants him.  But he doesn’t quite dare.  Then Fenris turns around, walks over to a bin against the far wall and drops the gloves into it.  Still facing the wall, he asks, “What do you think?”

 

Anders tries to reply, but all that comes out is a croak.  He clears his throat and tries again.  “About what?”

Fenris chuckles and shifts slightly, moving from foot to foot.  “What do you think I’m talking about?”

“Well,” Anders says, his throat very dry, “You’re _probably_ talking about this gorgeous tattoo.  I can only see it from upside down, but from here, it looks very good.  Perfect even.  But then _again,_ ” and here he sits up on the chair, staring at Fenris’ back, hoping he will not turn around and ruin his flow, “You might also be talking about the fact that we seem to be… er… suffering the same condition?”

 

Fenris turns his head slightly and smirks.  Then he faces the wall again and mutters, “It would appear that way.  I never had anyone get off on being inked like that.  When you… when you held your breath that way… I…”  he tails off, and then asks, very quietly, his voice no more than a growl, “Is it the pain you like?”

Anders shakes his head slowly.  “Honestly, it doesn’t feel like pain to me.  I’ve never liked pain in that way before.  I don’t know.  It might… it might be you.  I mean…”  he smiles, raises an eyebrow and tells Fenris’ back, “You’re… really beautiful.  And… you were really kind to me.  I don’t know,” he repeats, feeling suddenly shy.  

 

The silence descends once more.  Outside, a car roars past in the darkened street, braking heavily at the traffic lights on the corner.  Anders hears Fenris take a deep breath, and he turns around.  “Look,”  Fenris says harshly, and shifts his weight from foot to foot again, almost as if he is nervous.  “This isn’t something I do.  Not usually.  But… if you want to… I don’t live very far away, and…”

 

“Yes,” Anders tells him, without hesitating.  Fenris laughs quietly, and Anders smiles at him.  He honestly doesn’t care if he sounds overeager, he wants Fenris, is so relieved that it’s mutual that he cannot quite contain his glee.  He doesn’t know where this will end up, but he wants the journey.  So he smiles as Fenris approaches to cup him under the chin, pull his face up and tell him, “We have to cover the tattoo first.  And then… and then, we’ll see.  We’ll see where this takes us.”

 

-|||-

 

The world feels damp, the lazy heat of the day lending a sultry, sweaty haze to the very air itself.  Raucous crowds of partygoers throng the main street - it is Friday night after all, and Kirkwall celebrates the arrival of a new weekend.  But Maker, every nerve in Anders body is singing with tension.  He feels the slow bruised ache of the new tattoo under its light bandaging, the roiling of desire in the pit of his stomach and the fluttering of his heart.  Fenris walks quickly down the main road that the studio is on, Anders beside him.  Their arms brush together, and Anders swallows noisily, clenching his jaw.   

 

Following Fenris’ lead, they turn down a narrow side street just before the intersection.  It’s no more than a laneway or service alley, a half-full dumpster taking up almost half the entire width of the street.  A grey tabby leaps lightly onto the side from one of the apartment balconies above, and stares at them balefully as they pass.  This is Lowtown, the crumbling apartment blocks and strip joints and karaoke bars marking it as the place where Kirkwallers come to let their hair down, being less threatening than either Darktown or the Alienage, which is where the poverty stops being fun and starts being brutal.   _Weekend zanies_ , Anders thinks, feeling that old rage rise within his gut.  His breath is short in his lungs, the mixture of new lust and old anger intoxicating and he almost feels as if he is panting, when abruptly, Fenris stops.  

 

He’s standing in front of a double door - it looks like the entry to a warehouse, and Anders cannot help but feel a tendril of nervousness snake into his stomach.  Fenris fumbles slightly with the lock.  He turns the handle and pauses, before saying quietly, “If you’ve changed your mind…”

“I haven’t,” Anders tells him gently, firmly.  Fenris doesn’t look at him, but Anders hears the small smile in his voice when he says, “Good.”

 

The interior of the place is dark, cavernous.  Fenris closes the door behind them, bolts it.  It’s so dark in here, Anders blinks and waits for Fenris.  “The lights don’t work down here,” Fenris tells him, and then Anders feels Fenris’ hand creep into his.  His breathing seems loud, too loud in the sudden blankness of the interior, and Fenris tells him quietly, “Come with me.  Walk slowly.”

 

So they do.  Anders bites his lip - just the touch of Fenris’ hand has been enough to stoke the low burning embers of his desire to white heat again, filling him, consuming him.  “Stairs here,” Fenris says, and guides him up, up further, it seems to curve, this staircase and every step rubs the fly of his jeans against his cock, swollen to a throbbing pleasant ache which seems to echo the ache of the new tattoo.  Finally, they stop climbing, there is something akin to a short corridor and Anders hears a door open.  “In here,” Fenris tells him, his voice desperate, ragged, his hand grown clammy in Anders’ grip.  They walk through the doorway and Anders feels Fenris’ hand trail out of his just before low lights come on.  Anders has a moment to notice the large, neatly made bed in the middle of the room, the bright fairy lights which are the cause of the illumination before Fenris is there, reaching up, taking him by the back of the neck, pulling him forward to kiss.  And Anders falls into it, hungry for the touch, hungry for anything that Fenris will give him, his mind filled up with the want of it.  His hands go to Fenris’ hips, pulling their bodies together; some part of him notes how careful Fenris is not to jostle or press against the new tattoo.  But, oh, he is completely abandoned now, the slow throb of the fresh wounds spurring him further, as Fenris tangles his fingers into Anders’ hair, pulling, pulling, insistent but not demanding.  The silence engulfs them, only the pounding of his heart and the unconscious, innocent noises of their bodies; swipe of tongue, clack of teeth as they collide, a gasp.

 

Quickly, Fenris moves his hands from the back of Anders’ head and down.  He grips Anders’ cock firmly through his jeans, and Anders cannot help it - he moans, knowing he is in deep here, lost to it anyway.  “Last chance,” Fenris growls roughly, as he pulls and squeezes Anders, gripping and loosening in a merciless rhythm, “Last chance to back out.”

Anders gasps again, hooking his fingers, clawlike into Fenris’ shoulders.  “No, no, I’m not going anywhere.  If you want me, then have me.  I’m yours.”  When Fenris growls again, wordless, and begins to undo the button and zipper of his jeans, pulling them open and grasping him through the thin fabric of his underwear, Anders whines.  He is working on pure instinct now, hips rocking gently into Fenris’ hand, his own hands pulling first at the fabric of Fenris’ t-shirt, running along his back, aware on an almost supraconscious level of the faint ridges of Fenris’ tattoos under his fingers.  Then his hands go to the waist of Fenris’ pants, and Fenris steps away.

 

Anders just looks at him, astonished and then, just as quickly, utterly ashamed.  He sees Fenris’ chest heave, sees the wild look in his eye and his mouth begins to shape an apology; he pushes too hard, too fast, he knows it.  He swallows, looking at the floor, wondering what could have possessed him; Fenris is lovely, clearly talented at what he does, and… well… _just look at him,_ the little, horrid voice inside his head says, then asks mockingly, _what makes you think he would want you?_

 

Dimly, he sees Fenris moving from the corner of his vision.  Fenris’ torso is exposed as pulls his shirt over his head.  He throws it toward a corner, and begins to undo his jeans and toe off his boots at the same time.  And Anders sees all this happening, but still, he cannot quite believe that it is for him.  He looks up, slowly, watching as Fenris gets his boots off and his pants open, and is beginning to wiggle them over his hips, pulling his underwear down with them, when he glances at Anders and cocks his head.  “What?”  he asks, then his face falls slightly, then closes, betraying no emotion.  He nods, then states, “You’ve changed your mind.”

 

“No!  No, I… I thought you had,” Anders tells him, and his gaze rakes along Fenris’ body, following the pale patternations, intricate and strange.  “Maker, you’re beautiful,” he says, and then smiles, and looks down.  “I just…”

Fenris pushes his pants the rest of the way down, and when Anders glances up quickly, he’s stunned to silence all over again.   _Twice in one day_ , he thinks marvellingly.  Fenris smiles, more gently this time, and takes a step toward Anders.  Slowly, he takes another, bridging the gap between them.  He puts a hand out, touching the hem of Anders’ t-shirt, fingertips grazing against the sensitive skin of Anders’ stomach.  “I want you.  Do not doubt it.”  His voice is rough, and his fingers are warm on Anders’ skin.  Fenris licks his lips.  “May I?” he asks, pulling at the cloth, and slowly, Anders nods.  

 

Fenris pulls the t-shirt up, and Anders lifts his arms, catching the hem from Fenris’ hands and pulling it up over his head.  He throws it haphazardly in the same direction as Fenris has thrown his, and looks back down into those bright green eyes.  Fenris smiles slightly, trailing a hand down Anders’ ribs.  Anders watches his hand as it trails lower, lower still, and then Fenris looks up at him and says, his voice sounding heavy, thick, “Tell me what you want.”

 

Anders swallows.  “I want…” He closes his eyes, feels Fenris peel away the elasticated waist of his underwear and begin to pull it down.  The silence grows, and he tries again, speaking with his eyes closed, “I want you.  I want your cock in me, I want you to just... take me, do what you want.  I just want to feel you in me, I don’t care.”  He hears Fenris’ breathing change, there in the darkness behind his eyes, and as his jeans and underwear are pushed down, past his hips, down his legs to puddle around his feet, his cock springs out of the confines of his clothing.  Fenris seems to sigh, then murmurs, his voice somehow deeper, more penetrating than before, “Anders.  Know that… know that you are able to leave, to stop this at any time.  Tell me to stop, and I will.  You are under no obligation here.”  A pause, then Fenris says, “Open your eyes and tell me you understand.”

 

Anders feels… strange, like some internal sun had come out from behind a cloud.  So he opens his eyes, to gaze down at Fenris, who is staring up at him with a serious expression.  Anders tells him quietly, “Yes.  I understand.  If I tell you to stop, then you will.”  There is a short pause, then Anders, not knowing exactly why he does it, but feeling somehow that it is true, and right, he says, “I trust you.”

 

“Good,”  Fenris tells him.  He exhales, then tells Anders, “Get up on the bed.  I’ll be a minute.”  Anders grins and watches as Fenris turns away.  His tattoos really are everywhere, bright white lines scoring over his skin, under it; arching over his shoulder blades, crawling down his spine, cresting the curve of his ass.  They are delicate, intricate, but Anders cannot help thinking of the endurance and single mindedness it must take to embrace such a pattern.  He frowns slightly, as he watches Fenris walk toward a dresser, to open a drawer, then begins to struggle out of his sneakers.  Eventually, he manages to kick himself free, and crawls up on the bed on his hands and knees.  Fenris turns, throwing a bottle of lube and two condoms in their garish foil packaging on the bed. He smiles; but it is gentle, beatific, almost.  His breathing is still shallow, Anders notes, and his mouth opens - hungry now, so hungry.  “I want you to open yourself for me,” Fenris says, and Anders cock twitches in response to the gravelly hum in his voice.  “Lie on your back, so you don’t put pressure on the tattoo.  And… so I can see.”

 

Anders does as he’s told.  He takes up the bottle and pours, relishing the cool feeling of the viscous liquid on his palm.  Lying down as Fenris has instructed, he pulls his knees up, spreading his legs, exposing himself.  Maker, he can barely breathe, he’s so… so turned on by this.  It feels languid, wanton and luxurious, to be under Fenris’ gaze like this as he slowly slides the tip of his slick index finger around the edge of his hole, watching Fenris as he watches Anders, watching Fenris as he strokes his cock, working his hand along the thickness of it, pulling the foreskin away from the head, up and over, up and over in a continual rhythm.  Anders pushes his finger inside, smiling at the burn, loving the way the twin pains mirror each other - the bruising on his chest coupling with the slow sear of his finger in his ass.  More slowly, he edges in a second finger, working his hand back and forth, the rather depraved noise of his lubed up fingers as the ring of muscles begins to loosen, to stretch, the sound of it makes his lips curl.  Fenris’ eyes are heavy-lidded, still roving over Anders’ naked body,  precome glistening in a trail down his index finger, shining in the low light, his cock dark and swollen with blood.  Anders watches him as he fucks himself slowly, and huffs out a stifled groan as he adds another finger.  

 

Fenris bites his lip, then asks, “Ready?”

“Uh, hah… my, my,” Anders chastises gently between gasps, glancing up coyly at Fenris’ face, “We _are_ impatient.”  He pants, louder now, showing off a little.  He feels a deep heat creep up his neck, as he keeps fucking himself, slowing down now, spreading his legs a little wider, arching his hips up a little more.  Anders groans as he penetrates deeper, finding that, oh that, that _spot_ right _there_ , and then asks Fenris softly, “Touch me?”

 

Fenris’ eyes widen, and he smiles slightly, then nods.  Slowly, teasingly, his long fingers graze along the length of Anders’ cock, from the head to the root, down further across his balls, onto his fingers as they thrust in and out, in and out.  His other hand never stops its rhythm on himself, and his smile widens as he asks, “Like this? Or…” He slides his hand up again, then grasps Anders suddenly, firmly, the pressure exquisite, just this side of torment, “Like this?”

 

“Second option,” Anders gasps, “Oh shit, holy shit, I… Fenris, _Maker_ , fuck, it feels so good, I…” Fenris’ smile broadens again, and he loosens his grip, trailing his fingers teasingly along the length of Anders again, who gives a moan of disappointment.  “We are a chatty little fuck,” Fenris tells him, grinning and narrowing his eyes, “I like it.  I can’t take much more of this though. Are you ready now?”

 

“Uh huh,” Anders tells him, and Fenris leans away to scoop up the condoms, depositing one onto Anders’ stomach.  _Fastidious_ , Anders thinks to himself, and slowly removes his fingers from himself.  He frowns, struggling with the slickness of his fingers against the shiny foil, unable to open the little packet, when Fenris snorts and says, “Sorry.  Should have thought of that.”  He takes the packet gently from between Anders’ fingers and tears it open carefully, then hands it back. Anders smiles his thanks, and there is a moment of quiet as they both concentrate on the task at hand.  While Anders finishes rolling his condom down onto himself, Fenris leans again, takes the bottle of lubricant and smooths the liquid over his cock.  Then he looks at Anders, a question on his face, and Anders raises an eyebrow to say, “If you tell me I can back out again, you’ll be wasting your breath.  I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Fenris smiles, then looks down and takes himself in one hand.  He puts the other on Anders’ thigh, pushing it back, gently forcing Anders to roll back further, to lift his hips a little higher.  The anticipation is wonderful, horrible as the world seems to stop turning on its axis in that one moment, that sliver of time just before Fenris’ cock circles around Anders slicked, opened ass once, twice, then gently pushes in.

 

It seems to take forever.  Anders inhales, filling his lungs as Fenris fills his ass, feeling as if his heart will burst.  He arches his head to one side, exposing his neck, barely feeling anything else except for this gorgeous, delirious wanting, this desire as finally, Fenris seats himself and begins to move, infinitesimally at first, then in more of a deliberate thrust.  He is leaning over Anders now, Anders can feel the weight of him in the juncture of his thighs, the pressure of the hand Fenris is using to prop himself up on the mattress, feel the warmth of his body hanging over his cock, and Maker, oh Maker, all that shining white in the depths of his skin, all the lines of his body, of _him_ , himself, perfect, whole.  The strength of him, the pale hair, the way his mouth hangs open, his eyes closed.  “Anders,” Fenris growls, “Talk to me.  Venhedis, _tell me_ , talk to me, anything but… anything but silence.”

 

“You… you want me...oh _fuck yeah,_ to talk about, uh, about the weather?”

And by all that is holy, he laughs.  It’s only quiet, but it’s real, it’s there, and Anders smiles and closes his eyes.  “I can’t, Maker, it feels… it feels like… oh Maker, I’m just… oh…” Anders suddenly hisses the sibilant beginning of his next word as Fenris next thrust slams against his prostate.  His eyes fly open and he says, “D-do that, oh fuck, do that again, oh please.”

Fenris grunts, shuffles on his knees a little, though he never loses his rhythm, and asks, “What?  This?”

“Yes! Oh, f-f-fuck, fuck, harder, please Fenris, please Fenris, p-p-... _oh!_ ” Anders screws his eyes closed, both fists going to his face, covering his eyes, his knuckles digging into the soft flesh covering his eyesockets, the motion aggravates the bruised muscles in his chest and he groans wordlessly.  Fenris gasps, the motion of his hips driving into a crescendo, and his hand on Anders’ thigh pushes back so that it lifts Anders’ hips even higher.  He thrusts forward, Anders feels him inside, every, every thrust edging him a little, little bit closer to the precipice, when Fenris shifts slightly.  He slows a little, shifts again, moves up this time so that he is on his knees, and then Anders feels Fenris’ hand wrap around his cock.  

 

“Tell me, tell me,” Fenris almost purrs as he strokes Anders, and Anders knows, he knows what he wants, knows it’s what he feels, so he tells Fenris, his voice muffled from behind his hands, “Can’t.  Gonna come, you feel too good, you fill me so oh, _oh_ , you, Fenris, it, I can’t, I…” he takes a breath, holds it, holds it still as Fenris drives forward again, slamming into Anders as if he would drive the breath right out of him, but Anders holds it, holds it still; until suddenly he cannot.  He comes hard, with a loud cry as his back arches, his hands clenching into fists, toes curled against Fenris’ hips.  He scarcely feels Fenris as he tips forward, coming himself as he hisses strange words, foreign sounding and yet vaguely familiar.  Anders feels outside of himself, completely gone to float in the aether as he fills his lungs and releases a breath.  He lowers his hands slowly and looks at Fenris.

 

Fenris looks at him and blinks, then opens his mouth as if he would say something.  They stare at each other for a moment, Anders peeking over the edge of his fists at Fenris, Fenris peering through the white hair which frames his face.  Silently, he looks down again, to hold the base of his cock and remove it from Anders.  _No_ , Anders wants to tell him, _You don’t have to go_. Which is absurd of course, this is Fenris’ house, and it is Anders who… Anders who has to… Anders sighs and tries a smile.  “Thank you for… having me?” he attempts, then almost giggles at his double entendre.  

 

Fenris frowns, then snorts.  He looks at his cock, pulling the condom off it and tying it before he purses his lips and looks at Anders.  Anders pulls himself onto his elbows, propping himself up.  He wants to say something, to ask if he can stay, but it wouldn’t be right.  So he smiles instead and raises his eyebrows as he asks hopefully, “Bathroom?”

“Through there,” Fenris tells him, cocking his head toward a door on the opposite wall.  Now that he’s not so distracted, Anders notices the sounds of revelers on the street below, and wishes again desperately that he could stay.  But he smiles and wiggles up, and off the bed, then pads in the direction that Fenris had shown him.

 

When he comes back through to the bedroom, Fenris is under the dark coverlet.  Anders frowns slightly, and picks up his underwear from the floor.  _Bit rude_ , he thinks, _the least you could have done is shown me out_.  He collects his pants and has thrust one leg into them when Fenris says softly, “If you wanted… if you want… I mean, you could…”

Anders just looks at him, standing on one foot, balanced for a moment as he thinks.  Fenris shifts uncomfortably, swallows and looks toward the large window, then takes a deep breath and says, “It’s alright if you don’t want to.  I mean, it would be weird.  It’s okay.  I’ll… I can… call you a cab?”

 

Anders puts his foot back on the floor and stands up straighter, considering.  There is no phone in this room that he can see, and Fenris is actually in the bed, tucked up.  Almost as if he’s tried to make himself look as comfortable as possible, so that Anders might be tempted to… Anders narrows his eyes momentarily, then asks softly, “Fenris?  If it’s alright with you… may I..?”

“Alright.  If you want to,” Fenris says, and throws the blankets off one side of the bed, opening it, welcoming Anders in.  Anders grins, shakes off his pants and skips to the bed, crawling up from the bottom so that he might wriggle underneath sheets and blankets.  Fenris holds his arm up and Anders feels the deep rumble of a laugh as he ducks beneath it to snuggle against Fenris’ chest.  The smooth skin beneath his cheek, the weight of this strange new thing inside him makes Anders smile, his eyelids heavy.  He blinks and yawns sleepily as Fenris reaches out and flips a switch, turning the fairy lights out.  “Good night,” Fenris mutters, and Anders mumbles sleepily back, feeling safe here, in the dark, as the the ache of his tattoo fades slowly.  Around them the world shifts silently toward morning, and the break of a new day.

 


End file.
